


New Dawn, New Day (Five Ways Michael Was Woken Up)

by Clair de Lune (clair_de_lune)



Category: Prison Break
Genre: Alternate Canon, F/M, Gen, Het, Incest, M/M, Polyamory, Post-Series, Sibling Incest, Slash, Threesome, Threesome - F/M/M, gen - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-08-07
Updated: 2013-08-07
Packaged: 2017-12-22 17:56:10
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,597
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/916282
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/clair_de_lune/pseuds/Clair%20de%20Lune
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Five ways Michael was woken up. (Post-series, alternate canon.)</p>
            </blockquote>





	New Dawn, New Day (Five Ways Michael Was Woken Up)

**Author's Note:**

  * For [foxriverinmate](https://archiveofourown.org/users/foxriverinmate/gifts).



> Each "way" can be read on its own if some of the pairings aren’t your cup of tea. They can belong to the same ‘universe’ or to different ones as you prefer.  
> Written for Foxriverinmate's birthday.

**1.**

Michael Jr. possesses and displays his parents’ backbone and drive. Don’t be misled, most of the time his father is happy about that, grateful for that even, because Michael Jr. does not have an easy background and he will need his parents’ backbone and drive to go through life.

Michael Sr. just wishes he wouldn’t display said backbone and drive at six in the morning when his mom is up already but his dad is still lazing in bed.

Sara is a morning girl. Something about new dawn, new day, and watching the sun rise; you’d better be fast, dawn doesn’t last for long, here. It’s almost a game of seek and chase.

Her son is from the morning too. And Michael Jr. is totally _her_ son — in that ‘your kid, my kid’ way — when he jumps onto his daddy’s bed at six in the morning to let him know that it’s time to get up, even though it’s Sunday and still dark and bleary out there.

Sara pretends it’s the other way around, that it’s obvious Mikey is his dad’s son because he always, always knows what to say or do to get what he wants from pretty much anyone. Michael thinks she’s grossly exaggerating, but Sara just rolls her eyes and goes ‘whatever’ when he protests.

That being said, he leans up on his elbows when Mikey mentions legos and stuff to build. That’s his tribute to their new life: Sara likes to wake up early to consider the promises of the new day; he likes to contribute to what she’s started to rebuild, in this country, in this home, in any way he can.

So he doesn’t need much persuasion to roll off bed with a smirk and the fake complaint that Mikey is just like his mother — waking up early and knowing exactly which buttons to push to get what he wants from his father.

 

**2.**

He wakes up to the sound of Sara breathing into his neck. The night is still pitch black through the thin curtains, and rain hits the roof in an incessant, soothing pounding. No point in waking up Sara to catch an elusive dawn, not to mention that the rain tends to act as a lullaby on her anyway.

She’s snoring a bit. A soft purring sound vibrating right against his pulse and making his heart beat faster. He brushes a kiss over her temple and gets an appreciative murmur for that. She’s not totally asleep, not _deeply_ asleep at least. He kisses her again.

She’s warm and pliant against him, an arm and a leg possessively thrown across him. She’s wearing a simple nightgown, long and white. The garment is meant to be perfectly decent, but the fabric is so light and delicate that it’s almost a provocation, each line and curve enhanced by that so-called barrier between her and him. So not decent either, the way she molds herself against him, the promises she’s droning into his ear or her fingers edging down his stomach and searching on auto-pilot for the waistband of his pajama pants.

He craves her fingers on him, under that waistband, all over him, anywhere she’d feel like running them.

He craves even more the sound of her breathing into his neck, deep and steady, comforting, a mundane sensation, a constant reminder that she’s here and he’s here and...

Later, he will lay under her touch, beg for her touch if that’s what she wants, but for now, he gently stops her hand and holds it still against his heart.

 

**3.**

The mattress dipping beside him, the smell of Russian tea, fresh juice and warm toasts, a quick kiss on the nape of his neck, a hand gliding down his back and patting his hip. Michael stirs, stretches out and leans into the touch.

He doesn’t open his eyes. Not yet. He’d rather bask in the moment, enjoy the conjugated caress of Lincoln’s hand, of the sun on his back, of the salty breeze rippling in the bedroom through the window.

Breakfast in bed on a perfect morning. Sometimes, Lincoln can be so oddly, mushily, unseemly — and pleasantly — romantic.

Michael presses his face into the pillow and grins in his half-sleep. Lincoln’s fingers drumming up his spine finish waking him up. He turns over onto his back, arms and legs following lazily, and he lays there, mellow and peaceful.

He’s half hard. The white sheets running low on his hips do nothing to conceal it, just as Lincoln’s eyes on him do nothing to help his morning arousal to wane. With a knowing smile, his brother tugs on the sheets to fully uncover him and gently cups him. His hand is huge and considerate, demanding and giving at the same time, his thumb pressing in just the right spot; Michael can’t help a small moan, his hips canting, his legs parting to accommodate Linc.

He glances at the tray on the nightstand, with its mug, glass and plate, then at Lincoln’s hand stroking him. So much ease and familiarity, in those caresses, so much care and affection and... just _so much_ period.

“So,” Linc says with heat and laughter in his voice, “you want to fuck before or after your breakfast?”

So much for romanticism.

And too bad for Russian tea, fresh juice and warm toasts.

 

**4.**

They’re kissing right above his face.

They’ve made a tent out of the sheets that isolates the three of them from the outside world and lets only the morning sun come through, and they’re kissing right above his face, both for his benefit and for their own enjoyment.

They do enjoy it, it’s not a mere display for his appreciation. That’s what sends sparkles of lust into Michael’s guts, that’s why he goes from asleep to fully hard into what seems to be a heartbeat: Sara’s eyes shut tight, her fingers curled around Linc’s neck, Lincoln’s hand deep into her hair, their breaths mingling as their lips crush against one another’s, the silky sounds of unashamed kissing.

Michael watches, feeling voyeuristic and entitled to be voyeuristic. The two people he loves the most, and the morning sun bathing them in a filtered, golden glow. Who could ask for more?

“You awake?” Lincoln pretends to find out. He dives for Michael when Sara lets him go, his lips still wet and plump from his previous kiss.

Sara watches. Michael doesn’t know what feels best, Sara watching, Lincoln’s kiss, or the fact that he can taste and smell Sara on Lincoln. He bites Lincoln’s lips, arousal and a hint of jealousy burning bright in his stomach; because Lincoln doesn’t take shit from anyone, he bites back, harder, meaner, better. It takes Sara whispering something to him to have him backing off slowly.

Lincoln doesn’t take shit from anyone, but he does happily abide by Sara’s requests. Grinning at her, he slides down Michael’s body and closes his mouth around him. No niceties or extra foreplay, straightforward, so very Lincoln and — that was more of a surprise at first — so very Sara too, sometimes.

They have all the time in the world. As Sara points out teasingly, they’re letting him wake up at his own rhythm. Which is why Lincoln’s mouth descends on him with so much indolence, why Sara strokes Lincoln’s shoulder so gently, why she kisses Michael so deep and slow.

He yields. He relaxes into the bed, between them, and lets them have their way. He’s found out months ago there was no point — and no gain — trying to fight them.

The first groan of pleasure Lincoln’s ministrations wrenches out from him is swallowed down by Sara’s kisses.

 

**5.**

Their voices, blended with Mikey’s laugh, are a reassuring buzz in the kitchen at the other end of the hall — Sara’s, quiet and steady, no-nonsense, Lincoln’s rougher, a rumble that sustained Michael’s through his younger years and keeps supporting him.

He had nightmares, last night. He clung to Sara in pretty much the same way their child clings to her when he dreams of monsters in the closet and mean people doing mean things. Puffs of air against her chest, tight arms around her waist, clammy hands holding onto her shoulders, eyes wide open with fear looking for and finding something to anchor to in hers, face hidden in the silk of her long hair when he’d started to calm down.

She held him, she stroked his back, she kissed his lips in the most chaste way he’s ever been kissed. He gave into her embrace without shame or hesitation. It’s now that his cheeks warm up in embarrassment for needing her in such ways, for not wondering if she has her own nightmares.

Maybe he needs those dreams to expunge the last few years. The nightmares certainly feel less and less gloomy, less wearing and frequent. Waking up certainly feels more and more pleasant and _real_. Real too, the remaining warmth of Sara in their bed, the light imprint her head has left into the pillow next to his, her quiet, steady and no-nonsense voice in the kitchen, chatting, arguing, agreeing with Lincoln’s rougher one over Mikey’s giggles.

 _This_ is real. They earned the hard way their right to the life they’re leading now.

It’s late. The sun is high in the sky and barges in the bedroom as if to compel him to get up.

It’s the low-key conversation in the kitchen that drags him out of bed, just as it was Lincoln and Sara who brought him through trials and ordeals.

END


End file.
